


Feeling the beat of the drums

by BlaCkreed4



Category: Original Work
Genre: Epic Battles, Fights, Gen, Introspection, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:48:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29426250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlaCkreed4/pseuds/BlaCkreed4
Summary: The drums were rolling, setting the pace of the armies’ march towards each other.





	Feeling the beat of the drums

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Lande di Fandom's "Explorer", prompt: Me against the music by Britney Spears and Madonna (specifically by the verse "Feel the beat of the drum")

The drums were rolling, setting the pace of the armies’ march towards each other. They were thundering, reverberating in the soldiers’ chests and carrying in the plains, their sound mixing in a cacophony in the middle of it.

The commander was there in the first line, setting an example for his soldiers, shield in one hand and sword in the other. He could feel his heart thump at the rhythm of the drums, his feet moving at the same pace - right, left, right, left, and so on - and with his every other man’s feet too.

Adrenaline was rushing through his body, making his blood boil, his hands itch, his head more clear than ever. He had always been a fighter and he would always be, no matter how high in hierarchy he could get, no matter how much more political than active his role was, he would always get down his high chair to fight alongside his men.

He was sweating under the warm summer sun, his shiny helmet and armour doing nothing to protect him from the heat. He was feeling the drops running down his nape, down his temples, between his brows. And he was feeling more alive than ever, as only a battle would make him feel.

He was just starting to make out single men from the opposite lines, and with that closeness came the sound of the enemies’ drums, faint underneath theirs, but getting louder as the armies kept on marching towards each other.

They stopped some way apart but close enough to recognize each other, and Commander Nair glared at the opposing soldiers as the drums' beat reached its climax; as he expected he was the only high-up on the front line, perfectly recognizable thanks to his ornate and sparkling armour, an obvious target between the battered ones of his men. But that was exactly the point, fearlessly leading fighters to battle, showing how it was done, getting bloody and dirty like everyone else.

The drums of both sides stopped abruptly, and silence rang in Samuel's ears, the sudden lack of sound making him ear his own breathing. He raised his sword and shouted, promptly imitated by all of his soldiers - and a few seconds later by the enemies' too - then he charged.

He lead the front, his army moving in an arrow formation behind him, violently crashing against the opposing side; and everything turned to chaos.

All around the Commander there was the clanging of metal against metal, the shouts of anger and cries of despair of surviving and dying soldiers. There was spilled blood, so much that he could taste its metallic smell on the back of his tongue. There was violence inside and around him, churning his guts as he slashed and hit anyone wearing the wrong colours.

Soon enough his armour wasn’t shining anymore, covered in red blood like its owner’s vision as he lost track of time while attacking and defending himself by the enemies that kept on coming. The physical toll of the battle was starting to draw his energy off, making his reflexes slower, his hits weaker, his limbs heavier.

But he just roared louder, his heart thumping in chest as if it wanted to break his ribcage, ringing in his ears and almost covering the battle’s noises.

He hadn’t climbed the hierarchy ladder by giving up or backing down, and he sure as hell would _not_ start that day. He would never stop fighting, he would never flee, he would never lose!

He was surrounded by corpses and dying men, both enemies and friends, blood dripping down his sword and painting anyone close red as he swung it.

Every step forward he took was another opponent dead or almost dead at his feet, making it harder for him to take the following step, making him almost slip on guts and pools of fluids from which the grass was barely visible, making him falter but never fall.

He almost couldn’t believe it when he saw the plains open in front of him, the fight left behind him as his men tried to follow him as best as they could. And he could see the knights on their horses, ready to charge into the battle.

He could hear his heart beat like a drum in his ears, and he got ready to counter that new wave of enemies, his sword held high as he shouted.

“BRING IT ON!” he provoked them with no hesitation.

The knights charged, their horses’ hoofs hammering on the soft grass, humans and horses armours clanging in unison and filling the air with a new noise, a wall of animals rode by people with raised swords.

A new wave of adrenaline washed over the Commander, steadying his feet, sharpening his senses, clearing his mind from the exhaustion. He couldn’t feel the aches and soreness of his muscles, the strain that made them tense once more, the weight of his own body. He was weightless, limitless, as ready as he could ever be. And he smiled.

The first horse that passed by him found itself slashed from its neck to its belly, and it flopped on its back neighing painfully, bringing down and crushing its rider, who screamed with it.

The next faced a similar end, the horse suddenly finding itself deprived of his front legs and falling forward, launching its rider a few metres away face first in corpses and bloody mud.

Samuel had to move quickly to take down as many knights he could before they could reach his men, his enemies thinking better than charging directly at him by that point. Of course he couldn’t stop them all, but every enemy he killed was one less his men had to face.

The charge passed by fast and it took its clopping away, leaving Commander Nair in the thumping silence of his own muffled ears.

His legs were trembling from exhaustion, but in front of him stood only the drum boys and a handful of soldiers clumped around their flag.

He grinned, his arms falling limp beside him as he slowly took step after step towards him, dripping in blood from head to toe, dragging his sword and shield behind him.

The drum boys were the smartest, turning their back to him and running away, but the soldiers stood their ground.

They had no chance against him, but Samuel had to give them credit for trying; they were too young and inexperienced, fighting against one of the fiercest warriors of history at his peak of skill and experience, not even being five against one was helpful for them.

The Commander gave them a quick death, slashing their unprotected throats or stabbing their heart through their armpit.

He was panting as he looked around, tension keeping him up in fear of more enemies coming from behind him, but he saw with pride that his men were clearly having the best of their enemies.

He shouted as he pushed the flag on the ground, the proof of his victory against yet another army.

That seemed to catch everyone’s attention, with his men cheering and doubling their efforts, reinvigorated by the knowledge of already being the winners, while the losers turned on their heels and fled.

Commander Samuel Nair watched them past him, their flow parting to stay away from him, standing tall on top of their fallen flag, alone between them but as deadly as he could ever be.

As he slowly walked back towards his cheering men, careful not to let his unsteady legs make him fall, the hammering of his heart lowered, his ears began to ear his panting again, his soreness coming back at full force from all over his body.

He congratulated on his men, promising a well-deserved party when they were back home, with lots of food and beer and fun. But first, he ordered every standing man to look for their wounded mates, to help them back to their camp in order to be cured.

He stood on top of a short boulder, supervising the operations and looking out for a possible enemy ambush, resting up to recover from some of the fatigue.

He was sad to notice how many of his soldiers had died, how many promising lives had been cut short, how many ‘I’ll be back’ promises had been broken. That was the worst part of all that, but he took it to his heart to make the round of the fallen men’s families to bring the bad news, sharing some of their grieving with them, always feeling guilty to compensate them with money in exchange for their loved ones’ lives. But war was war, and death was inevitable.

He would be on the front of the official funerals’ line too, feeling the drums thumping in his chest again, only in a very different, solemn tone from the one he had felt that day.


End file.
